


All That Glisters Is Not Gold

by legbeforewatson



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2019-06-11 23:38:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15326925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/legbeforewatson/pseuds/legbeforewatson
Summary: Taelia Fordragon finds herself summoned to the Stormwind court after Kul'Tiras' reentry into the Alliance, carrying her father's name and legacy amidst self-important courtiers and their insufferable retinue. Navigating court life isn't easy, especially when she was raised as anything but a well-brought up noblewoman should be.(Set in the middle of Battle for Azeroth, post unification of Kul'Tiras.)





	1. The Messenger

**Author's Note:**

> **WARNING** : Many of the characters, lore, and settings in the work are from Battle for Azeroth. If you were neither a beta key holder nor somebody who religiously keeps up with datamining, AND/OR have not completed the whole campaign, I suggest you skip the work to avoid major spoilers. 
> 
> No OCs except some nameless characters that only serve the plot point*. Named characters are _ALL_ in game and in lore. Click around when you play next and you may well find them! 
> 
> *Anduin's premier valet is one such character. This can technically be seen as true to lore due to Wyll Benton's (Anduin's man servant) advice for the King to find a valet for himself prior to his death in _Before the Storm_.

The last of what she could remember was the offer of a polite smile in which she reciprocated with a dutiful bow. He who was surrounded by gold and gleam, the faint sounds of Ironforge’s finest shaped onto strong hooves and braided tails, and the foreign yet familiar Southern drawls praying for his health and their ultimate victory.

Taelia hoped she didn’t offend nor make a fool of herself. _Light willing._

When the day ended and she returned home, Cyrus had come to greet her at the door. Her guardian was a stern man who burst at the seams with affection for his master’s ward. He was her father and she his daughter. Nevertheless, invented familial relations no matter how comforting did not stop her from lighting candles for her real one, a man she knew only through passing stories.

Her caretaker-cum-master took her cloak, bag, and weapon – to which she thanked him with skepticism. He had raised her with survival and independence at heart, so any signs of servitude were oddly placed. Not the least because she was also _technically_ his squire.

‘Taelia, this is—’ He stood out of the way to reveal a clean and uniformed man who looked similar in years to herself, though his translucent skin and bright eyes might hide his real age.

‘— a messenger of the High King,’ he took introductions into his own hands and doubled over.

Taelia’s eyes caught sight of a rolled parchment in his satchel with a seal of Stormwind and she suddenly felt heavy – as if her future had suddenly been written for her.

She gestured for him to sit, herself sliding into the tall chair where Cyrus usually took his post-meal warm ale and slumber. The messenger nodded and turned to fish the rolled parchment out of his bag to present it to Taelia, inclining his head as he did.

‘The King’s valet sends his warmest regards.’

Taelia reached out for the scroll and glanced over at Cyrus who looked like as if he knew exactly what the message entailed. She broke the seal, unrolling it to scan over the contents – inscribed effortlessly in expensive Pandarian ink. It didn’t take her long to read, opening her mouth to respond only for the messenger to interrupt.

‘The carriage awaits you overmorrow, Lady Fordragon.’

_Lady Fordragon._

She knew her father to be a knight of Stormwind, nothing more. Now that his true esteem is revealed to her, she never stopped to consider the burden that came with it. She had been Taelia – or Tae – and the legacy she was now constantly reminded of was once nothing more but too often trimmed wicks in the candles she liked to light for him.

All she ever wanted was for the Light to receive him well.

‘I will be in in it.’

The messenger looks pleased, but Cyrus did not. He took one last bow and his cape trailed behind him, leaving the ominous parchment to fill the sudden space between them.

Cyrus closes his eyes, snatching the letter out of her hand – a strong consideration of tossing it into the fire but he left the thought behind, instead placing it atop the mantel.

‘Service to Stormwind killed your father. Will you do the same to yourself?’

Taelia is all ears but her mind is elsewhere, greens piercing the burn of the hearth.

‘The House of Wrynn is cursed, Taelia. Many think it – none will speak of it.’

She remains quiet for a few more moments before propping herself up from the chair to stand. Her stride around the room was near-subconscious as she took the scroll off the mantel, tucked it into her hung up cloak, draped it across her shoulders, swift steps moving towards the front door. Only midway of stepping out did she pause, looking back into the sadness in her guardian’s eyes.

‘You’ve raised me strong, Cyrus. I can’t thank you enough.’

With that she closed the door, drawing her hood up as unwelcome tears met salty winds.


	2. Great Sea Comfort

The _Snug Harbour_ was uncomfortably quiet this evening, with only the plucks of a weary lute from an even wearier bard filling the gaps of drunken gossip. Flynn had been three sheets to the wind for most of the evening, which was – to be fair – a change from most of the day, _most days_.

Flynn could feel the post-ale headache swiftly arriving, so he waved the innkeeper for more – who sent a young maid to deliver his remedy. She slammed the mug on the table, where the heavy thud rose him from his stupor, allowing him to croak a thank you in response.

‘Fairwind, ya better ‘ave the coins te pay fer this month alone,’ the innkeeper muttered, attempting to dry down the counter if not for the unconscious Draenei sprawled on it, ‘—Andegel, ‘a many bleedin’ times do I’ave to tell ya the bar’s for drinkin’ not sleeping?!’

Andegel waved a hand as if to signal he understood yet made absolutely no effort to move.

‘Can’t believe you’re still hammering me on,’ Flynn hiccupped, ‘—the invasion of these mainlanders can more than make up what I ever owed ya, Wes.’

Wesley snorted, ‘Their coins won’t do me any good when green skins come through them doors.’

‘Andegel’s big enough to bar those doors, mate – don’t you worry,’ Flynn giggled drunkenly.

‘It’s not a joke, Fairwind,’ Wesley snapped – by now having moved on to the row of mugs upon him, drying then lining them up on the shelves above the kegs of ale.

‘It’s a sad and sorry idea this is, Kul’Tiras gettin’ involved.’

Flynn doesn’t reply, dragging the mug over to him, smooth amber inches away from his lips but the tavern door flew open to announce a familiar figure who paced over to him before he could take a sip.

‘There you are.’

The voice stood over him then pulled up a chair to sit across him, eyes taking in the sight of a thoroughly and competently plastered man.

Flynn finally took his well-deserved sip, spilling too much in the process before raising his mug with an air of mockery, ‘Milady.’

Taelia chooses not to amuse him, instead reaching over to grab the mug from Flynn’s grasp. His reflexes doesn’t let him give up so easily, his grip tightening as he moves it further away from within her range.

‘Time to get used to rotten grapes now, your ladyship.’

Taelia rolled her eyes, reaching over once more to try her luck but found none when Flynn decided to skull the whole damn thing. She sighed exasperatedly, leaning back against the chair and crossed her arms, searching for some sympathy in the man as she griped, ‘I hate wine.’

Flynn chuckled as the rush of ale unexpectedly hit him like a pistol shot in between his eyes. He attempts to tend to it, cradling his head instead of gloating in his victory as he would have wished.

Taelia stood up, walking over to where Flynn is sat and draped her arms over his shoulders. She rested her head so close besides his ears that he could hear her swallow every thought and hesitation.

She hadn’t really committed to how she was to tell him, so with snake-like movement she coaxed him out of his seat instead, pulling him up by the lapels of his coat. She took his hand, leading him up the stairs towards the room at the end of the corridor. They passed soft and strong snores alike alongside dreaming murmurs which leaked from gaps, with floor creaks, splashing tidal waves, a crow or two, and howling midnight gusts to compliment them.

Taelia pushed the door open with one shoulder while she supported the weight of the man she was now pulling into the room. When the door closes, she nudged him gently towards the bed, helping him lie on the lumpy mattress Wesley had always advertised as the best sleep Kul’Tiras had to offer for two silver pieces and twenty coppers a night. _Still a bloody rip-off,_ Taelia thought.

Flynn collapsed onto the bed with a pleased groan, kicking his boots off to no avail. Taelia too was also unsuccessful in concealing her rather liberal laughter at the sight of Flynn repeatedly flailing his legs to rid of his footwear.

‘Don’t you laugh, Tae – for Light’s – _ugh_ –.’ Flynn gasped and grunted, ‘—who do I have to— damn it—bloody – _fuck_!’

Flynn had managed to kick off a boot, wheezing as if he had just rebuilt the city of Boralus with his bare hands. It seemed as if one of the smallest rooms in the inn had the audacity to shrink even more as his eyes glazed over his surroundings.

‘Not me, mate,’ Taelia scoffed, moving to help him with his other boot.

‘Last Tuesday could have fooled me, love,’ Flynn suddenly smirked, catching her eyes and her arms as she had by now leaned over to help him with his shirt.

Taelia and Flynn had an unspoken yet frequently talked about situation that more than satisfy the local natters. He was a charismatic ne'er-do-well and a notorious drunk, and she was continuously whispered to be ‘… _such unused beauty, wasting ‘em with steel and swords’._

They were childhood friends, sort of. In any case, she knew him more from the recurrent meet and grills over “lost” papers and purpose when moving goods and transport into the harbour.

Taelia offered a lukewarm smile, sliding his shirt off before swinging herself over his body and rolled on her back to the unoccupied side. She glided over to his warmth, resting her head and a hand on his bare chest. She sank deeper into ease, eyes closing, breathing in time with his own.

‘If only I could fool you again next Tuesday,’ she whispered to no one.

She only finally fell asleep at the sound of his snoring. To anyone it was probably a deterrent, to her it was sweet cradlesong.


	3. A Parting Advice

Flynn only found out when last night’s heavy drinking forced him to search for a chamber pot in the blind. The sun had poured into the cracks of the window, dust dancing in the rays that had unluckily cast a spotlight on a stuffed scroll peering out of Taelia’s cloak. The broken blue seal was rather loud in the drab interiors of ebony and plaster that Flynn could not just leave it be.

He looked over to a still sleeping Taelia, softly purring into a pillow, one arm draped across her eyes. Thoughtlessness had always saved his skin so with no more than a brief reflection he chose to read its message.

_At the behest of His Majesty the King, the premier valet of the royal household bids the Lady Fordragon his warmest greetings._

Though unsurprised that Stormwind would make a move on the only known inheritor to the Fordragon name, Flynn certainly scoffed in bewilderment as to why it was coming from the King’s valet. Messages coming from the royal household implies the personal, not politics – and Taelia’s newly found name certainly carries weight.

_His Majesty is most pleased to have met the daughter of the late esteemed Regent Lord of Stormwind, Highlord Bolvar Fordragon._

_Lord Fordragon was an_ _honourable_ _man, having served the kingdom, the Alliance, His Majesty’s father, the late King Varian, and His Majesty himself with courage, wisdom, and faith in the Light._

_His Majesty is also gratified at the return of Kul’Tiras into the Alliance, which His Majesty believes would not have happened without the Lady’s aid._

‘And bloody mine’s,’ Flynn scoffed, one hand holding the letter while the other unbuttoned his breeches as he hovers above the pot, clumsily aiming.

_His Majesty trusts that the Lady is well aware that the campaign against the Horde requires committed persons, those loyal to both the crown and the Alliance._

_As such, this humble servant is entrusted to extend His Majesty’s request for the Lady’s presence at court—_

Flynn swiftly backpedals, his piss suddenly hitting everywhere but the appropriate premises.

‘Oh, for _fuck’s_ —,’ he groaned, kicking the pot to help him aim better – only to knock it down, predictably spilling its dreaded contents.

The clang of the chamber pot on the hardwood flooring was enough to wake Taelia, whose consciousness returned faster when her nose caught whiff of the tang of biting ale and dehydration in the air.

‘For Light’s sake, are you still drunk?!’ Taelia snapped, suddenly sitting up.

Flynn doesn’t answer, instead holding up the letter in the air as if a scheme he just uncovered.  Taelia’s expression softens, quiet, unable, lost – lips parting as if to say something but no sound came out. Flynn’s eyes stayed with her before they moved to the letter again, skimming through it and secretly wanting to be proven that he misinterpreted the first time.

‘When were you planning to tell me about this?’

Taelia shifted in her seat, crossing her legs under the sheets as she shrugs, ‘Last night – but you had too much drink in you to understand anything.’

‘When are you leaving?’ Flynn asked, with no known expression on his face – nothing Taelia could deduce anyway from years of knowing the man.

‘Tomorrow morning,’ she continued to search his face and found no real compassion.

While Flynn doesn’t quite say anything, his body language certainly tells he had an entire book to write about what he felt.

‘Flynn, I—’

‘They’re going to _eat you alive_ , Taelia,’ Flynn cuts her off, ‘You may be of noble birth, but you grew up knowing you were just like the rest of us. You’re not made for corsets and courtesy, you’re a fighter – an adventurer, not some silly… frivolous noble girl waiting for a potential suitor.’

‘Can I not be a strong, smart, and capable noblewoman taking up her father’s place?’ She smiles sadly.

‘Oh, you want to be a politician now?’ He laughs, contemptuously, ‘That’s rich.’

Taelia’s brows furrowed, voice firm now, ‘I just want to know where my true place is.’

Flynn stepped over the spill on the floor, approaching the bed and leaning closer to where she was – his voice as smooth as it is venomous, ‘No, Tae. You want to know why the letters stopped coming.’

Taelia is stunned at his candour, and while he was right – it hurt no less than a brutal beating. She untangled herself from the sheets, running both hands through her morning bedhead and tucking its rogue strands behind her ear. She stands, walking and collecting a trail of strewn clothing from last night, putting them on as soon as she’s picked them up.

‘You know what? I was wrong. You _would_ make an excellent silly frivolous noble girl. You’ve got the naivety down to an art.’

He didn’t exactly expect a response to his berating, looking over the overly immaculate cursive on the parchment with disdain.

‘This is more than just politics… this is—’ Flynn sighed.

Taelia had finished dressing herself, looking over at Flynn with a knowing smile, though she’s careful to offer it for fear of Flynn thinking she wanted this. Though, maybe she does – if only to hear stories of her father beyond tall tales of adoration. What exactly lies beyond ‘ _He died valiantly fighting against the mightiest of traitors, Arthas Menethil’_?  

‘I doubt he’d want anything to do with me beyond fulfilling his own want for reminiscing.’

Flynn rolled his eyes, ‘And even a King’s bed needs warming.’  

The truth rang in the air and for once, Taelia allowed Flynn to be right.


	4. Fatherly Words

Taelia spent the rest of the day crowding what belongings she had into the trunk Cyrus said she came with when she was thrusted upon his care. It had aged well, what with her guardian insisting on keeping everything in the house spick-and-span even if they were unused or overlooked. Made out of fine dyed leather and Silverpine timber (a testament to a time before everything else), it was decked with brass details and its lid embossed with a seal of Lordaeron.

The squire realised she had very little to wear that would not only be appropriate for the High King’s court, but additionally help her brave against the whispers and politicking of nobles. She pursed her lips, her befuddled mind allowing Flynn’s warnings to occupy it.

_They’re going to eat you alive._

Taelia suddenly felt nauseated, even foolishly terrified as she looked over an assortment of dull dresses that screamed more wench wear than the gentry. There was certainly no time for a trip to the dressmaker, and even the finest of Kul’Tiran tailors would not be able to conjure a dress fit for the walls of Stormwind Keep even if time was available. Kul’Tiras, for all its might, was a place of strong ale, sailors, and hardy girls like herself – not of beautiful and delicate things.

And then there’s the question of _money._

Unlike Flynn, she had very little need of money. The guards were heavily subsidised: a cot to sleep in, meals provided twice a day, its own healers, and a respectable weekly stipend. She didn’t even need the amenities, they were just pleasant add-ons to her. She divided her income to equal thirds: to the church, to the needy, and to help Flynn get out of his all-too common gaming debts.

Now that she carries the Fordragon name, money would certainly be useful. Nobility was earned either through the sword or the coin (and occasionally, dumb luck). Her father proved it through his sword, which he offered in service of the monarch – and while she could hold her own in a fight, she was far from seasoned. As for offering coin, she was stumped before the thought even came to mind.

She was lost in her thought when Cyrus came to knock on her door, letting himself in when she didn’t reply for quite some time.

‘You alright?’ He closed the door behind him, his size always seemingly dwarfing Taelia’s room.

She turned to him, and although he did not startle her, she certainly didn’t expect him, ‘Cyrus, I’m sorry— I didn’t hear you knock.’

‘Spent quite some time doing it, Tae,’ he chuckled, taking a seat on her bed, ‘Lost in your thoughts were you?’

Taelia folds a nightdress and lays it flat on the trunk, hesitating to tell him the truth, ‘I suppose I’m just a little bit overwhelmed.’

Cyrus looked out into the view of the bustling harbour from Taelia’s window where more and more Alliance ships were arriving, introducing both familiar and new faces. The sails bearing the Stormwind Lion flew arrogantly against the grey Kul’Tiran skies – as if bringing with it ideas of subjugation. He had of course heard of the new King’s reclaiming of Lordaeron and even more recently, his desire for Stromgarde. Who is to say that Stormwind has not toyed with the idea of a united human kingdom? Unification will certainly strengthen its position against its enemies.

Who is to say that Kul’Tiras will remain independent?

Cyrus stopped himself, knowing it did not contribute anything valuable to his health to speculate on the nature of Azerothian politics in these terrible times. He instead moved to pick up one of the laid-out dresses, stretching it in the air to see it in a better light. The dress was dusty teal with a simple but pretty lace motif around its low yet tasteful neckline. It was made of wool cloth with a couple of built in underskirts to it, but mainly fell flat when worn.

‘This is a fine dress,’ Cyrus nodded to himself.

Taelia winced as she packed a few of her favourite books, ‘For a village wedding, maybe.’

‘What is a kingdom but a large village?’ Cyrus smiles, folding the dress and instead of handing it over to Taelia to pack, he set it aside as he thought of an idea.

‘Just as a bucket of water is a small ocean,’ Taelia mumbled, rolling her eyes.

‘Precisely!’ Cyrus chuckled, hoping he had earned a smile from Taelia.

Taelia does smile, but it was laced with dread. She stopped midway arranging her books, looking over at her adoptive father, ‘What if you’re right?’

Cyrus was certainly moved to pull her into a comforting embrace, a gesture that was probably appropriate for this moment, but he knew that they never had that kind of a relationship. Instead he gave her a reassuring squeeze on her shoulder, the other hand nudging her chin up.

‘No, _you_ were right. I raised you strong. You’re going to make your father proud.’

Taelia could not stop herself as she moved to catch him in an embrace, wrapping her arms around him as if she was never to see him again. She would be lying to herself if she didn’t admit her eyes watered. Cyrus smelled of the sea, a familiar scent she would always think of as home. She let go of him, smiling, though there was sorrow in her eyes.

‘It would be enough if I made you proud.’

Cyrus is anything but a sentimental man, so he coughs as if to divert the moment for fear of bringing down his wall. Placing both hands on her shoulders, he squeezed them reassuringly once more.

‘Come now. Finish your packing and say your goodbyes,’ Cyrus moves to grab the dusty teal dress, making sure Taelia didn’t catch him doing so as he hid it behind him. 

Taelia nods, finishing the day doing just so.


	5. Ready, Set, Court

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pre-launch is now up! Hope you're all having fun getting the 3 minutes of new content. 
> 
> Feedback and comments are always appreciated. x

Sleep was difficult for Taelia that evening before her departure. She struggled to relax, her eyes only closed in pretend to fool herself of some well-needed rest. In the middle of the night, she roused to pray, believing it would help her find the peace to drift off. Regrettably, the Light did not seem to care to allow her rest as she returned to bed still fraught. So, she spent the night mapping the cracks of her ceiling through a lone candle she decided to leave on.

Morning came, and she near jumped out of bed, inelegantly moving about the room as she readied herself for the carriage that was to take her to the ship for Stormwind City. It was almost silly, she was perfectly capable of walking the distance, though she wasn’t about to refuse the service offered to her.

Taelia questioned whether she should wear her hair up, staring at one of the only available mirrors in the house as she brushed her hair without any fashion. She was clearly out of her element, having barely ever looked at the looking glass that has been hanging on her wall since she took the room a decade ago. She was dismissive of girls who spent their morning preening and tittering, considering it a better use of time to shine her armour in preparation of the day.

There were no armours to shine today… nor ever from now on, it seems.

She was suddenly reminded of Lady Proudmoore, who boldly returned home with a suffering heart and plaited hair. _She is so effortlessly beautiful_ , Taelia thought to herself as she fumbled with her tresses, parting the crown of her hair to braid its length before securing it with a blue ribbon.

 _Blue for the Alliance_ , Taelia nods at her own reflection.

A fawn coloured dress made of linen and wool cloth was laid out on her bed, one which she last wore to a celebration honouring the life and sacrifice of Lord Admiral Daelin Proudmoore. Flynn had made fun of her for wearing what he called ‘ _a_ _marvel that succeeded in giving the effect of a bust to give a shit about_ ’. While the bastard could not stop smirking, the other men failed to cover their stares. In the end, it was Flynn who took the dress off of her, correspondingly taking something else of hers that night.

 _It felt like yesterday_ , she closed her eyes. There remained in the corner of her mind’s deepest crevasse, memories of hands, of kisses, of whispers, of promises, of _unthinkable circumstances._ The night felt endless, as if bronze drakes themselves had yanked her to come out of the twist and play. Taelia remembered both everything and nothing, she remembered praying to the Light, apologising to her father, and thanking her inability to hold her drink. She wondered if every first time always felt like the last time.

Flynn’s other warning suddenly hit her.

A warning even she was not naïve enough to think untrue.

While the priestly King did not seem the type to use his privilege for something so primordial, Taelia didn’t think it completely impossible either. The Light never cared for chastity, at least not to her knowledge and understanding. Out of the three tenets, the Light favoured Compassion above all – a virtue she believed men often think they are doing but would in its place champion the opposite.

The truth is that power and its continuity laid in sons. It’s almost grossly daring how the rule of monarchy relied on something as elementary as reproductive capabilities. Kings may be great, but their legacy depended on their sons. The incumbent Stormwind king sealed his father’s when he built him a memorial that would evoke feelings of devotion and contemplation, but the crown prince of Lordaeron sealed his father’s when he chose to take fate into his own hands.

The Kingdom of Stormwind is in a perpetual state of peril as long as its ruler remain heirless. The Alliance too, is at risk of a power vacuum – a condition that would render them powerless to continue the war with a positive outcome in mind. For a king, his body is no longer his own – it was the property of the state. His heir would be Stormwind’s, just as he was when his mother bore him. The cathedral bells would ring for his son, just as it did for him. From the moment he was born, he was his people’s.

In any case – _never mind_ , she thought, royal affairs do not really interest her.

Taelia slips on the only pair of corset she owned, plain weave stiffened with baleen – superbly out of her pay range but this was a fortunate hand-me-down courtesy of the Proudmoores. Such a quality corset typically deserved the aid of servants, but Taelia was short of those so she took the job herself. She took a final breath – one to last her the long sail to Stormwind – fastening the suffocating device before struggling to tighten the lacing.

Her waist immediately lost inches, her stomach pushed past its usual residence, mingling reluctantly with her heart and lungs. If Taelia previously ever lacked noteworthy birthing hips to sway royalty, she now possessed one to sought envy. She pressed on, shimmying into the petticoat and skirt before pulling on the top, tying everything in place and making sure no unwanted seams were visible.

Taelia let out a tired sigh, imagining now half of her life was to be spent getting dressed. She made a quick stop by the mirror, declaring herself fairly court worthy, if not despairingly. Upon heading for the door, she gave one last glance around her now empty room – a safe space that had helped her hoard her feelings.

 _Goodbye_ , she whispered to herself – deciding to leave behind her deepest secrets.


	6. Partings and Pastries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second week of War of Thorns! How are you feeling about the Sylvanas situ? Personally annoyed that they threw away a chance to give us a twist but... it is Blizzard after all. 
> 
> Comments and feedback always appreciated. x

Cyrus had overdone himself that morning. The table was abundant with foods that had never graced their home before: honey-glazed haunches, loa loaves, ravenberry tarts, fried sweetbread, and an assortment of unidentifiable roasted meats courtesy of Byron & Bros. Boralan BBQ. Cyrus was a simple man with simple needs, having raised Taelia on a diet of hearty stews and thick gruels washed down with pints of small ale. It comes as a pleasant surprise then when Taelia makes her way downstairs greeted with more than simple soldier’s fare.

‘I’m sorry – is the King himself coming to fetch me?’ Taelia teased, jumping the last three steps of the staircase.

Cyrus was in the middle of pouring goat’s milk into mugs when he caught her little habit and chided her fondly, ‘Now is that the way a noblewoman should make her entrance?’

Taelia rolled her eyes, grabbing a piece of loa loaf and takes a big and rather fierce bite out of it as she plopped down a seat on the table. She gulfed down the mouthful with little to no chewing, earning another talking-to from the harbour master.

‘Taelia, I’m serious. Manners and etiquette may mean little in Kul’Tiras but it’s a currency in a place like the Stormwind court.’

Taelia offered an apologetic smile as crumbs fell onto her lap, to which Cyrus simply chuckled.

Their morning exchange was interrupted when the front door flung open to give way to none other than Flynn. He was all smiles and cheers this time, with no sign of the trite and contemptuous appearance he held for her just a morning ago.

‘Something edible in this house for once!’ He boomed, making an entrance typical of the self-proclaimed lothario. He strides over to the table and gave the spread an over-exaggerated look of delight.

Taelia is half surprised to see Flynn but hides it well as she retorted, ‘Doesn’t stop you from constantly coming over to scrounge our food.’

‘Only because I’m saving the poor old man from your terrible cooking, my dear,’ Flynn smirked, grabbing a piece of one of the roasted meats before proceeding to unceremoniously shove it in his mouth, chomping noisily.

Taelia grimaced as she looked over pointedly at Cyrus, ‘I’m not the one to be concerned with over here, what with the poor people of Boralus having to endure his terrible chewing.’  

The former knight is nursing a mug of goat’s milk, his face sterner this time, ‘He’s not the one leaving for Stormwind, is he?’ Cyrus sighed, placing down his mug, ‘Now you listen here, young lady. You best be on your finest behaviour. You’re not only there to amuse the King, but you’re to represent your family name, your father’s memory, and Kul’Tiran politics as a whole.’

Taelia quiets, fiddling with her half-eaten loaf – she was regretting her decision already. Both Flynn and Cyrus don’t seem to be concerned in instilling any sort of confidence in her, instead fixated with threatening her of the mistakes they were sure she would make. She may be rough around the edges, but she was still a Fordragon. Noble blood coursed through her, and somewhere in the depths of her memory she remembered her mother teaching her what Cyrus could not.

‘I know what I must do, I just wished you would trust me more,’ Taelia said lowly.

Flynn is busy satisfying himself with a large breakfast, wise enough to know that this was a conversation he was not welcomed in – despite having been involved in her initial warnings.

Cyrus came over to Taelia’s side and sighed, ‘I trust you, Tae. And I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, you’re going to make your father proud.’

‘And you,’ Taelia whispered.

‘And me.’

Cyrus clasped a hand on her shoulder before he walked out of the room, giving a chance for Flynn to speak. He had been dreading this day since she told him, though he attempted to dismiss any feelings of concern or worst: sadness.

Flynn walked over to Taelia this time, to which she looked up with searching eyes – hoping she would catch a glimpse of his all too rare genuine smiles. A smile he only offered when they first spent the night together, a smile she would sorely missed, a smile to remind her of what mattered.

Yet he offered none, only questioning in his eyes.

‘Stay safe out there, Tae,’ he nodded, ‘Won’t have me to watch your back this time, eh?’

She gave him a reassuring smile, reaching out to barely touch his hand, ‘I’ll write.’

He doesn’t return her gesture, instead giving the top of her head a light ruffle, ‘Maybe I’ll write back.’

She scoffed, punching the side of his hip, ‘Twit.’

A moment later, Cyrus returned cradling the dusty teal dress Taelia had dismissed yesterday. Taelia raised her brow quizzically as he dumped the dress on her lap, seemingly waiting for a reaction. She looked over at Cyrus who gave her an encouraging look, though Taelia didn’t seem convinced that any work Cyrus might have done to the dress would be enough to impress.

The dress remained the same colour, yet its bodice and skirt were now overlaid with sheer jacquard fabric made of fine muslin. Around the neckline, various gems of the same colour spectrum as the dress were arranged neatly. Taffeta ribbons were added to the ends of the sleeves, giving some much needed overhaul to the then pretty yet drab dress.

‘I didn’t know you were handy with a needle and thread, old man!’ Flynn laughed.

Cyrus ignored him, looking instead at a happily stunned Taelia, ‘Andegel’s apparently – besides a drunk – a fine tailor and jewel crafter. Human hands wouldn’t be able to finish this in a day, but Draenei hands apparently could.’

Taelia is suddenly feeling a little more self-assured, something she didn’t think could be done by a pretty dress. She grinned from ear to ear, looking up at the both of them.

‘Now, I’m quite sure I’m ready.’


	7. In Chains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has certainly been way too long since an update! BfA dropped and the fic was promptly pushed to the background as my guild and I frantically geared to be raid ready by the time Uldir dropped. Now that we're slowing down and getting into a routine again, I have the time to be writing once more. Yay. x

The coach arrived an hour and a bit later, leaving enough time for conversation and more food between the three. The messenger that had been responsible for delivering Taelia’s future was absent, with only a driver and footman to meet her. They loaded up her trunk and the rest of her belongings quite efficiently, announcing that they were prepared for the ride only shortly after.

She took the footman’s hand and stepped into the carriage, the click of the door closing after her as if the final seal to her decision. It’s not that she had much of a choice in the first place – it was an order, not a request. Taelia looked upon the faces behind the glass, where muffled sounds of _Goodbye, stay safe,_ and a cheeky _For only the price of a fair face and a capable hand, you too can rise up the backends of Boralus into the King’s bed!_ from the predictable source of Flynn-bloody-Fairwind sent her off.

Taelia tapped at the glass barrier between them, giving a hesitant wave as the driver hollered at the steeds to move. The wheels turned beneath her, catching every clefts and cracks of the cobblestoned roads. For the first time ever, she watched the morning hum-drums through an unfamiliar lens. Life was nothing more than repetition for the citizens of Boralus, but this particular morning they allowed themselves to stop momentarily to stare at the rare occurrence of a stately coach passing through their dingy streets. Some waved, some frowned, and their kids ran after the horses with laughter.

She had now left behind Taelia – or Tae – and took the name Fordragon with relative composure.

The ride was short but appreciated, considering the other option of lugging her stuffs all the way down to the particular dock where the ship to Stormwind rested before her next journey. She could already see Flynn disappearing on her as soon as she mentioned the idea. So, here she is – seemingly paraded through the streets of Boralus. While at first she felt embarrassed at the whole ordeal, it took only a brief glimpse of her new self on the window to turn her indifferent and almost, _dare she say it_ , comfortable.

Upon exiting the carriage, she was handed over by the footman to another in charge as if she was a delicate souvenir the King of Stormwind picked out himself in his time in Kul’Tiras. It was a middle-aged woman this time, perhaps not much older than Lady Jaina. She had spent her journey up until now with various men telling her next move that she found it an uninvited surprise when it turned out be a fellow woman. Men she knew easily, but women kept secrets much too well.

‘Lady Fordragon,’ she curtsied, inclining her head concurrently as she did.

Taelia was neither trained in simple pleasantries, let alone proper etiquette. She could only offer an awkward smile, nodding in approval her salutation. She was even more unsure whether she carried a title or was just one chambermaid. To her experience, she saw the Proudmoores had many – but none who dared speak until spoken to by their mistresses.

‘I’m a Lady’s maid in the royal household, and I’ve been trusted by His Majesty to make your journey to Stormwind a most comfortable one,’ she smiled, ‘Come, let me take you to your quarters.’

Taelia could only nod, thanking the coachmen who had just finished unloading her belongings to the deckhands. They gave a deep bow and went on their way, leaving Taelia a lone Kul’Tiran amidst a ship of Eastern Kingdom natives. She did not wander in that thought for too long though, instead eyeing around the large and rather impressive transport ship. It was of strong Elwynn timber, its sturdy nails and casings forged by their neighbours to the North. The lion glistened in the sun, woven by delicate elf and human hands alike. Kul’Tiras may have a fleet size to envy, but Stormwind ships were more luxurious than anything they’ve ever dared built.

Taelia suddenly caught sight of a makeshift roost atop a large mast where a row of gryphons perched, preening and screeching. She was reminded thus of a short conversation she had with the messenger about bringing Galeheart to Stormwind. _He sounded… positive_ , she thought.

‘I was told Galeheart – I mean… _my gryphon_ would have a place in the ship.’

The Lady’s maid only smiled, ‘Stormwind has many beautiful gryphons, my lady.’

It seemed to Taelia the end of the discussion, and though tempted to press on – Taelia let it go with a heavy heart. She did say goodbye to her girl, though the tone was laced in hope that she would be allowed to journey with her to Stormwind. Perhaps he could appeal to the messenger once more, the King’s valet, or… even the King himself.

The Lady’s maid led her all the way to the stern, where stairs led to an elevated level which overlooked the main deck. A footman stood in front of an ornate door, carved onto it the Stormwind crest. He inclined his head as he opened the door for them, revealing a spacious room quite fit for a family of five. Or two of them, even.

‘I trust the Lady’s stateroom will suffice.’

Taelia whips around, trying to hold back a stunned laughter. It was certainly a room fit for a queen, not a squire – and it was everything she did not need.

‘Yes… it’ll serve,’ she chuckled.

More footmen came to deliver her belongings, each one of them bowing before and after leaving her chambers. Taelia felt uncomfortable once more, but she held her feelings in, instead taking in the confines of her room.

‘His Majesty’s valet sends his regards, my lady,’ the other woman nodded towards the bed, on them laid dresses and jewellery, no doubt paid for from the royal coffers.

‘His Majesty’s valet sends a lot of regards, it seems,’ Taelia ran a hand on one of the dresses to test the fabric, expensive to the touch and no doubt would look absolutely ridiculous on her.

Taelia’s newly thrusted posse left shortly after, leaving her to ponder her fate as she looked around the room that felt as much like a prison as the corset pushing into her ribs did. She wished now Flynn was with her, only he could conjure appropriately formed nifty comments to lighten the mood.

It was not long after before she heard the faint shout and rhythm of deckhands and dockhands alike as the ship left its station. Boralus shrank upon her eyes, and she wondered if she would ever see her again.


	8. The Lion's Den

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has certainly been a while! I hope those of you who were following are still interested in Taelia's adventures in Stormwind (and I hope new readers are just as well). BfA has been a strange journey for myself and my guild - and life has really gotten in the way of playing the game in general. In any case, I still love Taelia all the same and I still love the idea of Taelia/Anduin just as much. Enjoy. x

The ship from Boralus had docked just a little after sunrise – its passengers greeted with the loud squeals of both familiar gulls and not so familiars native to the southern continent. The birds circled the new arrival – gawking especially at the row of gryphons still half asleep in their roosts. The initial entry into Stormwind harbour had once been a fortunate sight to see – its gleaming white structures blended seamlessly to the cliffs the city was built on, both imposing and welcoming. The kingdom’s standards adorn every corner, sending a message to friends and enemies of the Alliance alike.

It was less impressive now as it was a sobering reality to the ongoing war. Trading vessels made way for war ships and cargos brought goods to bury instead. Soldiers of the Alliance return wrapped in thin white linen when coffins became too costly and inconvenient to transport in mass numbers. Priests and paladins had escaped the confines of the cathedral and taken to the docks, greeting the wounded and shell-shocked all the same.

The smell in the air would have been unbearable, if not for mages conjuring spells to mask the stench of stale blood and gunpowder. Stormwind had bore the brunt of successive wars – its sons and daughters lay lifeless, its mothers childless, its children homeless, and its crops soon abandoned as civilians began to bear arms.

‘We’ve arrived, my lady,’ a murmur came from behind Taelia. Her Lady’s maid had spent the last fifteen minutes tightening her corset, with each pull having cut off Taelia’s already limited air supply. Though she dreaded dressing herself, at least doing it on her own would have given her lungs a break.

‘Could you not—’, _Umph!_ Taelia has to scramble for her next breath as another lace is pulled impossibly tight that she is forced to close her eyes and swallow her next words.

‘One’s composure is determined by only the inch of her waist, Lady Taelia.’

‘Then I would rather live foolishly, if only to breathe,’ Taelia mumbled.

The older woman chuckled, tying down the last of the lace and tucking them away. She goes off to fetch the remaining pieces of the undergarments, including the ridiculous crinolette Taelia could only laugh at the first time she saw it. Why the women of Stormwind insist on adding layers upon layers to their wear despite the warm climate of their home is beyond her. _And another thing_ – too much of everything was not just reserved for attire it seems, as Taelia’s head was now a full nest of hair pushed, pulled, curled, and pinned to an unrecognisable shape.

Taelia took the brief moment by herself to walk closer to the window, where the view could only make her grimace. She felt uneasy standing here, surrounded and showered in material triviality when the dead decorate the docks below.  

‘Perhaps one day you could see the harbour with less sorrow.’

Taelia turns around, the Lady’s maid is all sad smiles as she cradled a gown in her arms like a new-born. The words she uttered were heavy in Taelia’s ears, feeling as if it was laced with a personal tale behind them. Taelia doesn’t fish for answers though, instead lowering her head as the magnificent skirt is placed on her.

There was an art to dressing one’s self, she had to admit. It was an act of ritual in itself – a moment to rehearse the manner in which she would conduct herself that particular day. Today, her role was besides stranger to a new town, a foreign diplomat determined in establishing herself in the heart of the Alliance. Lady Jaina herself had given her the go ahead prior to her leave.

Stepping out of the ship, Taelia was greeted with the same messenger who was responsible for her very presence standing there.

‘Lady Fordragon,’ he bowed.

She returned the gesture with a curtsy, smiling as she did.

‘Welcome to Stormwind.’

The young messenger showed the way to the carriage that was to take her to the Keep. Indeed, it was even more elaborate than the one provided to her in Boralus. Tried as she did, she cannot overlook the clear suffering surrounding her. The juxtaposition of her garbed in expensive silk and the dead in simple linen made her physically ill. Though she knew etiquette transcended circumstances, she chastised herself for going through with it.

The ride to the Keep was shorter than expected, though it might be for the fact that she spent the entirety of it glued to the window – fascinated with every nook and cranny the city had to offer. Boralus was relatively busy, but Stormwind was overflowing. What was most refreshing was the variety of peoples – which undoubtedly reflected the multicultural Alliance. Fellow humans were good and well, but communities of dwarves, elves, gnomes, and draeneis living their lives was certainly a charming change.

To greet her at the entrance was an old yet well-built gentleman, with greying hair, decorum, and a kind smile. He opened the carriage door for her and bowed as she stepped out, ‘Lady Fordragon, we’ve been expecting you.’

‘I’m the King’s premier valet, head of the—.’

Taelia suddenly beamed, and she couldn’t stop herself from interjecting, ‘You wrote the letter.’

He was stunned, though he hides it with a smile, ‘…ah yes, that I did – at the behest of His Majesty.’  

Taelia somewhat reddens when she realised she had not done what Cyrus warned her to do: _mind her manners_. She’s determined to stay quiet until asked a question from now on, trailing the older man into the castle. Her Lady’s maid and footmen had left her in his hands as they head to the back entrance to deliver her belongings.

The Keep was magnificent, a true testament to human resilience. Strong walls, tall columns, eternal fires – laden with blue and gold overtones. Lion heads were present throughout, each more imposing than the next. Though Proudmoore Keep was just as beautiful, Taelia had to admit that she did not exude as much imperial power as Stormwind’s. It was certainly more lively too, with nobles, courtiers, soldiers, and their respective retinues and posse filling every inch of the castle.

They paid no attention to her at first but when one caught of her presence, whispers like waves washed over the whole court and their gaze turned to her simultaneously. Taelia never felt more intimidated, as if an unwelcomed guest stared down to finally flee in fear. His Majesty’s valet had been talking this entire time it seems, and it was only at the mention of her father’s name that they suddenly deemed her a threat.

‘Lady Fordragon.’

Taelia feigns confidence as she turned to the unfamiliar yet friendly voice. She was greeted with a much older woman than herself, or even Lady Jaina. Taelia could tell she was beautiful in her youth, though that beauty is certainly alive even under now wrinkled skin.

The mood of the court changed – everyone inclined their heads, ladies offering a gentle curtsy, and guards stand at salute before returning back to their resting position. Taelia was blind to who the woman was, but she was certainly of great importance that she followed the rest of the court and curtsied.

‘Your Majesty’ the King’s valet bowed deeply, ‘May I present to you, the Lady Fordragon.’

The older woman smiled, reaching to touch Taelia’s shoulder in signal for her to stand again.

‘I know exactly who she is’ she chuckled, ‘Genn had told me of your bravery in Kul Tiras.’

 _Genn_.

Taelia suddenly put the two and two together, realising now that this was King Greymane’s consort, Queen Mia. He had talked of her plenty, especially of their time in Darnassus prior and after the burning.

‘Certainly no braver than what you did in Darnassus, Your Majesty.’

Queen Mia looked affected by those words for a moment, but she could only return Taelia’s words with a smile, ‘Thank you, young one. Everyone there could only be brave that un-fateful day.’

Taelia suddenly regretted mentioning the burning, but war inevitably carried casualties with it – talking about it openly is only part and parcel of conflict.

‘We’re pleased to have you join us, Lady Taelia. I look forward to hearing your making a splash here at court,’ Queen Mia’s eyes twinkled with something, but Taelia could not make out what exactly that is.

With that, the Queen of Gilneas makes her leave – her Gilnean party shadowing her as they make their way out of the Keep. The nobles immediately return to their conversations, having listened to their exchange in utter curiosity.

‘You certainly will, Lady Fordragon. We can only hope,’ the King’s valet speaks up this time – another twinkle in his eyes.

No doubt, Taelia is quite confused.


	9. The Black Pawn Moves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Definitely has been a while. Swamped with work and life, continuation is certainly overdue. Enjoy. x

Genn Greymane had always stood a head taller than everyone else – and a little over two heads when he was in his other form. Nevertheless, his daughter Tess had always been capable of making him feel smaller than he actually is. She was as stubborn as she was beautiful – just like her mother – furious as he, and just as brilliant as Liam was.

Tess stood by the window which viewed out onto the courtyard – dark eyes fixed on a certain new arrival, a fixture that would surely rattle the Stormwind court. One hand stayed closed to her hip, as if feeling an invisible dagger her royal attire allowed little to no space for. She has since grown to feeling uneasy without the weapons she was used to carrying outside of her official duties.

She turned to her father whose eyebrows furrowed in that fashion when he had something to say but could not utter for fear of disagreement.

_He was certainly not the only one living two lives as one,_ she mused.

‘Say what it is in your mind, father.’

Genn looked up at his daughter and grunted – as per usual – then turned his attention back to the strayed documents laid across his working bureau. He didn’t trust scribes, so he took it upon himself to carry out all the mind-numbing paper work. War was not only fought on the battlefield, but sometimes – more often than he’d like to admit – in writing.

‘Say what it in yours, daughter,’ he muttered.

Tess glided towards her father – one arm embracing his chair, the other leaning against his desk. She scanned the contents of the scattered papers and sighed as she picked one up, ‘Oh father, I so wished you would trust people more. You are beyond grain and ale rationing.’

‘You will soon learn—’ he gently took the parchment off of her hand, ‘— _daughter_ – that you would be wise not to.’

Tess rolled her eyes and moved away to place her weight against the table before leaning towards her father, ‘You’re afraid.’

‘Of?’

‘You’re afraid of ambiguity.’

Genn grunted, _again_.

‘He does not wish my company, so be it,’ Tess shrugged, ‘He is hardly the only one.’

‘He is the only one that is good enough for _my_ daughter!’ Genn roared, slamming a hand on the table that it shook.

Tess is unaffected by his sudden outburst – has been for a long time since his father took the curse. She instead reaches out to cup her father’s cheeks and forces him to lock eyes with her, a habit she has learnt to work in making sure her father does not turn form in misguided rage.

‘Father, he is a king. Worst – a man, now. And from what I have learnt – kings and men disdain being told what to do.’

‘Then he is both a foolish king and man if he thinks fighting for the future without being sure of what the future holds is anything but pointless.’

Tess could only smile, she knew her father had grown to care for the King as he did Liam – perhaps that is why he is often hard on him and expects better. She stood, circling the table and made sure her father understood what she is capable of doing, especially in the business of men.

‘I never said I could not make him ease into the thought, father.’

Genn looked up at her curiously, leaning back against his chair in sudden interest.

‘He wishes to be his own man. Then I will make sure he believes it is of his own volition.’

 

 

* * *

 

 

Taelia felt out of place, and she felt _especially_ out of place now more than ever. The King’s valet had given her a brief tour of the keep in which she spent most of the time staying quiet for fear of misbehaving. The keep was beautiful, that was obvious – but it was also daunting. Etiquette may be a currency, but desire for power kept it alive. Surely no one could live like this? Paranoid, apprehensive, fixated with power and position.

If she hadn’t thought about regret before, she certainly did now. Anyone she had come across would give her an unreceptive air – mostly older men and younger ladies. With no idea why, she chose to ignore them and whatever their reasonings.

The tour ended in her to-be prison, foiled in gold in a brazen display to testify the Alliance’s wealth.  She had not a single clue where to look first, whether the intricate carvings framing the fireplace, the shine on lacquered woods, or the rich blue hues hugging just about every surface. It was much too large for her, but everyone insisted the entirety of the space was her own to make.  
  
She glided across the main room where the dining table and common area was, her heavy skirt insistently following behind as if a ball and chain securing her in this tower. She came across the drawing room, peeking inside to see delicate furniture that looked to be curiously new. In fact, _everything_ felt incredibly new – though the rooms itself had certainly stood here to see generations of Stormwind gentry.  

The next room she found was for sleeping, four poster queen-sized with tall canopies in lighter shades of blue. Actually, _everything_ _was bloody blue._

‘This is all mine…?’ Her voice was soft, out of fear and astonishment.

‘Certainly, milady.’ The valet nodded, keeping a safe distance between them to gauge her reaction and every movement she made as if gathering information for himself. 

Taelia walked further into her room, finding even _more_ unnecessary space dedicated to what was to be her armoury now of gowns upon gowns. A concealed door that seemingly blended with the walls revealed a bathroom – a kind she had never seen before. A large porcelain tub sat in the middle with soft linen curtains in pink hues surrounding it. Kul Tirans bathed in rivers if they can be bothered, and the more affluent had sturdy wooden tubs.

Returning to the bedroom, she catches the vanity across the bed where sat upon it is a jewellery box with ornate tortoiseshell embellishment. Taelia opens it carefully, as if scared of unleashing something unwanted. Inside laid a set of pearl and diamond earrings, necklace, and a fan that had been finished with starlight rosedust – giving it an iridescent blue sheen. Nothing like it could be found in Kul Tiras, _well,_ besides the obvious fact that owning a fan would be superfluous considering its climate.

She spread out the fan – the specks of rosedust catching every light. As she played with it, she caught her reflection unwittingly in the mirror – a far cry from the proud and relentless squire hungry for adventure she had been just a couple days ago. Funny how a pretty dress and fixed hair could make one feel so vulnerable. She felt embarrassed to see herself, feeling as if she didn’t deserve to look like that.

‘Lady Taelia,’ the valet’s voice came from the door, but he did not walk further towards her. Instead he stepped aside, deeply bowing as another figure came through.

‘Lady Fordragon.’

Taelia doesn’t immediately turn in her seat but as soon as she saw the stranger’s reflection, she nearly lunged out of her seat. Considering the situation, it was comical. Immediately, she kneeled by the foot of her bed, “Your Majesty!”

The King of Stormwind certainly appeared before her unexpectedly.

‘Please, rise,’ Anduin smiles. ‘A lady need not kneel to no one.’ _A hand_.

She swallowed and took his hand, careful not to trip over her dress as she stood once more but kept her head lowered. She was still uneasy with the thought of looking at the King straight in the eyes. Royalty somehow makes her uncomfortable.

‘Forgive me, Your Majesty. I did not see you there.’

‘Then you must forgive me for surprising you,’ Anduin grins.

Taelia still not dare look at the King directly and can only offer a soft response, ‘There’s nothing to forgive, Your Majesty.’

‘The apartment belonged to your father for a long time and had been left empty since his passing. I had it… revived for your arrival. I trust it is to your liking.’

Taelia felt the King teasing her, of course it was to her liking, it would be to anyone lucky enough. It was a world she did not know she was a part of for a long time – and though grateful, she still can’t shrug the feeling of unworthiness.

‘Your Majesty is much too generous; a small room would have been to my liking.’

Anduin reaches to touch her arm, as if he knew of her all-consuming apprehension, ‘And yet you deserve more, Taelia.’

When he dropped formalities, Taelia found herself able to breathe.


End file.
